


The Ill-Fated Pledge

by AngeNoir



Series: Inktober 2017 [2]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Arrogance, Gen, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 10:18:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12252363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: You'd think that someone trained in the mystical arts would know better to say careless words to strange travelers that come knocking on one's door near sunset.Inktober Drabble 2 = Universe: Avengers (MCU) / List: Steampunk / Prompt: The Magician





	The Ill-Fated Pledge

**Author's Note:**

> Written for inktober, based on the prompt "The Magician" from a Steampunk list. (You can see [and prompt me!] my initial post about my inktober writings [here](http://outercorner.tumblr.com/post/165938959460/so-i-am-gonna-be-trying-this-inktober-thing-but).)
> 
> (This is perhaps the most stereotypical interpretation of 'the Magician' but give my brain a break, today was not that great teaching-wise.)

There wasn’t much Stephen Strange enjoyed in life beyond the thrill of scientific discovery. He loved designing experiments, loved the act of learning, loved proving his superiority.

...That last part more than the others, quite honestly.

He  _loved_  proving that he knew more than those old dotards at the Royal Society. Ever since his only competition disappeared from the public arena - Stephen never would admit it, but the young Stark had been a flash of brilliant, bright fresh air in the middle of the otherwise stale, dull, limited minds of the upper echelon - Stephen had shot forward, a constant irritation and provoking influence on the nobles. He stayed on his family estate for the most part, ever since he jeopardized his safety and social standing by insulting the elder son of an Earl.

He knew he was arrogant, but he also knew it was well-deserved arrogance. He had single-handedly updated the lighting and mechanics in the Queen’s own castle. He had created a device to redraw water, pump it cleanly into the kitchens, and create a cleaner option than chamberpots. He had pieced together intricate pulleys and wires to sort his mail, time his lights, draw his bath, and alert the kitchens to begin his meals when he was ready for them.

In short, he knew he was one of, if not  _the_ , England’s intellectual force.

This arrogance served him well as he moved throughout his young adulthood and his upper years, eschewing the finding of a lady of the manor to devote himself wholeheartedly to untangling the mysteries of electricity and magnetism.

Until, ultimately, he flew too close to the sun.

His subsequent terrible injury, his travels through the Orient, and his eventual enlightenment at the hands of the Most Ancient One - if she had any other name, he did not know it - all served him a sickening mouthful of humility. He returned to his manor in the country and shut his doors after him.

For he had not achieved his dreams, his goals - not in their entirety. He had instead been mocked and derided by the Most Ancient One, and her proteges. He had been flayed open with tongue and weapon both as he became versed in the mystic arts, and when he had broken their most sacred taboo - again, out of his arrogance, out of his  _pride_ , out of his stubbornness to believe he knew all - the Most Ancient One had forbade him to ever return to the temple. Instead, with his limited knowledge, his vast thirst for this new dimension only whetted, never sated, he returned to England and his mundane existence.

How could he find joy in his machinery, in his artistry from afore, when he had once held the delicate tendrils of heat in his naked hand? How could he resign himself to cobbling together bits of metal when he had once knitted flesh beneath the glow of his spirit?

When opportunity came knocking, he leapt at the chance, though he would not know his folly until far into the future.

It came by way of a strange traveler; a young girl, barely outside of adulthood, seeking shelter one lonely night on the moor. Stephen could no more send her on her way as he could destroy his own flesh - the moor was no place for a young lady traveling (as she told him) to her country estate quite a few miles further onto the heath. As it was, Stephen - for the first time in what seemed like years - ate his supper at the formal dining table, the young lady and her maid on the opposite end. The kitchens had a surprisingly thorough meal, and Stephen was flush with good food and wine when he retired to the drawing room, inviting the young miss to spend some time with him.

Perhaps because he had been alone so long, or perhaps because he still had that damnable pride, but he showed off some, preening before the young girl like a cock to a hen, inviting her oohs and aahs of wonder as he depicted his mechanical contraption that allowed for him to transmit his voice down to the kitchen to ask for tea and pudding to be sent up.

After quite some time discussing his brilliance and knowledge and the gossip from the court, the young lady - she had only introduced herself as the Lady Clea, and while the name sounded like a forename he was not as well-versed as he should be in the nobility and their surnames, so he would not stir up trouble - gathered her skirts deliberately around her and dimpled coquettishly at him from her seat. “Call me Clea,” the young girl asked, her maid (or companion; Stephen was unclear of the lady’s position, but more or less an acceptable chaperone) sitting silently by her side.

“Milady, I could not be so forward,” Stephen murmured, sipping from the cup on the writing desk before him.

The young girl tittered a little, turning her head to let her golden hair sweep down over her pale neck. “He could not be so forward; he, the Strange doctor that set the Earl of Lincoln’s son on his ear!”

Stephen paused, eyes narrowing. Though he had been cast out by the temple, he had still a trickle of talent left to his shaking fingers, and there was an ill wind in the air that made his hackles arise. “Are they still telling that tale in polite company? They certainly would not allow me to share in that arena.”

“Oh, but you see, Lord Strange, I know a great many things. I know that your power has been wrested from your hands, and your skill for the arcane is nigh unspeakable. I took this trip to my family’s estate to meet you, you see.”

“This is - highly improper,” Stephen said, getting to his feet. “Your family would not be pleased - “

Her eyes glowed, and he could sense the same mystical energy that once coursed freely through his veins emanating in waves from her very being. “I ask you, Lord Strange, the Doctor-Mage, would you wish to reclaim your skill for the esoteric?”

It may have been because of his hermitage, or perhaps because of his humiliation at the temple, or possibly as a result of his bored and unoccupied mind, but he answered the young lady more truthfully than he had ever intended: “With all my heart and soul.”

The maid at her side lifted her head, her eyes nearly black in the low firelight, and the Lady Clea smiled like a cat in the cream.

“What an excellent choice of words.”


End file.
